Borim Stoneshield of Mol Boldhir
by Corgastor
Summary: This was originally a character background for a D&D 5th Edition campaign. Once the campaign ended I decided to turn it into a full story rather than let it sit on my computer gathering virtual dust. It is the story of Borim Stoneshield and his company from Mol Boldhir as they fight the cunning Elves of Casbarad. Further chapters will be added in the future.
1. Fort Toruhm

Cold. Cold is all that can be felt, and a thick wall of snow is all that can be seen. That's fine, Dwarves are well made for the cold, that's not a problem. A company of Dwarves caught in a blizzard while Elves are nearby, that's a problem. Nothing that hasn't been faced before, of course. The Dwarves of Mol Boldihr have fought Elves for many years, and fought blizzards for even longer.

"Captain Borim," calls a voice from the rear of the company. It's a voice you recognize. You turn to face it and see Sergeant Ruark come out of the snowy pall. He is clad in scale mail, slashed, dented, and worn from years of use, just as you remember. It's colored with deep blues and glimmering, silvered steel on the chest piece, and over it flutters a tabard bearing the sigil of Mol Boldhir. That was what it once looked like at least. Years of conflict have dulled the once brilliant colors of the armor, and it's beyond memory as to where the tabard went, since that's been gone for years. Looking closer at him you can still see the spot where an Elven arrow torn through the armor and into his shoulder. Brawny bastard he is, a shot like that would have easily felled a lesser dwarf.

"The mountaineers report seein' figures in the woods behind us. I told the men to hold fire for now, what do you want to do about 'um?"

Normally that wouldn't be a problem, you've dealt with Elf tactics like this before. If conditions were more favorable you'd be able to easily fight them off like you've done hundreds of times before, but this isn't normal. This doesn't feel right. The Elves usually hate the snow, that's why you're going through the mountains to get at them in the first place. Come to think of it, you can't remember a time when you've ever seen the Elves come up into the mountains. Gripping your axe close you suggest to Ruark that maybe they're just seeing things. A deer perhaps? You don't really believe it, and you can tell from the look on his face that Ruark doesn't either. With a frown he turns to the halted group of dwarves.

"Medgar, Odvin, Skudd, you're comin' with me. Get your crossbows loaded". With that Ruark waves his arm toward the rear and the group leaves your sight.

Watching him leave you grab your flask of "medicine", as you call your booze. It's a fine Dwarven brew, given to you by your family as a gift for the campaign ahead. Family may not be good for much, but you reckon a brew like this would have been well out of your price range, even for an officer. You pop off the cork and drink. It feels warm, but it's warmth like a small fire in a large hall. Your core is warmed, but you swear that if you stay out here for a hour or two more that you'll be leaving your limbs behind. The timing seems about right anyhow, looking up you can barely make out that it's almost night.

Wait, what?

You double take. It's almost night? That can't be right. You were supposed to be at Fort Toruhm in time for dinner. Putting a hand to your gut it occurs to you that that time has come and gone, and it doesn't seem like you're anywhere near the fort. A missed meal is a sore thing even for the hardiest of dwarves, but that isn't what bothers you. It is a rare thing for a dwarf to get lost. You pull out your compass, an old thing from the time your father served. Shaking the snow off of the glass surface you gaze at the needle. It is lazily spinning about in all directions. Father did say that magic had an odd habit of making the needle spin about, but what magic was there to be found in these woods? The damnable thing probably hasn't worked in years. You angrily jam it back into your pocket and look toward the company. The men are grumbling about the cold, you can hear them cursing it over the howling of the wind. You've waited too long as it is, and the only way is forward. Calling the company to advance you head further into the blizzard.

Time passes. You don't know how much, but you do know that every moment of it is bitingly cold. Suddenly a figure pushes forth from the snowy mist. You grip your axe and ready yourself. You've been waiting for something to fight.

"Captain, thank the gods I found you! I thought I'd be lost for sure in all this snow". It's just Doryn, one of the mountaineers from the vanguard. You gruffly ask him why he's here instead of his position. "Sorry, captain, but I thought I ought to tell you that we're close to the fort. Turns out that we were a bit off course, but don't worry, I got us back on track. We'll be eating warm food soon, you bet on it!". With an affirmative grunt you wave him back to the front and order the company to keep moving.

Stupid compass.

A bit more time passes and the blizzard subsides. One enemy down, you think, now the only enemy left is the dark, and dark vision means that it won't be much of a fight. You manage to crack a smile. The worst has passed, and you'll soon be warm and safe.

These are wonderful things, warmth and safety, and they're are as irregular as elves in the mountains as far as you're concerned. To be fair, the luxuries you'll be enjoying at the fort would look like poverty next to even a lesser noble, but it's good enough. A soldier should never expect too much in life, save a good deal of hardship and an eventual cold grave in a foreign land. Sometimes you wonder how you managed to get caught up in this warrior profession, then you remember: You have your father you thank for it. Dwalgar Stoneshield, professional soldier, officer, councilman, and parent on the side. Yes, you remember it all clearly now. Brother Dunarin got the job of preparing to succeed father as head of the family; brother Rornar got the government position, taking father's place on the council as our family's representative, and you, the youngest son, got the job in the military. Father had been a military son himself, so he at least had the decency to buy an officer's commission for you when you enlisted. You've been in the military ever since, and have made quite the career out of it. Now you're leading your own company against the hated Elves. Thinking about it strengthens you with a deep sense of purpose.

Captain Borim Stoneshield, that certainly sounds nice... though Commander Borim Stoneshield sounds even better. One day, perhaps. You've gotten this far, and you're only 53 years old. That may sound old in human terms, but 53 to a man is only a bit past 20 in Dwarven years. You have a long life ahead of you, barring any tragic injuries in the workplace. Yes, there are still years to gain glory and honors...

You're stirred out of your dreaming by a light. It's bright and large, like the light of a lighthouse. That's odd, there wasn't a beacon up here as long as you remember.

"Captain Borim!" stumbles a voice from the mist. As it gets closer you can see it's Doryn again. He seems rather wound up, maybe he's as surprised about the new beacon as you are...

"The fort, captain! It's on fire!"

A beacon, wouldn't that have been nice? No time to think about that now. You turn about and roar for the company to get in battle position: You are going to save that fort, or take it from the enemy, whichever depends on how well your luck holds. You draw your axe, don your helmet, and advance toward the enemy.

The light grows larger, and as you get closer you can begin to feel the heat. Come closer still and you can hear the sound of clashing weapons, groans, and yells muffled by the roars and crackles of the fire. You arrive in front of the burning fort with your men arrayed behind you. Ahead of you the scouts have held position in front of the gate, or what was once the gate. All that remains of it now are some smashed and burned logs. It must have been quite a blast to have turned the gate to a mess like that. It'd be best to stay on guard. You order the mountaineers to hold the perimeter, and with a call and wave of your arm beckon the infantry to follow you inside.

If it weren't all on fire it occurs to you that with would have been a reasonably comfortable place to call home, at least as far as forts are concerned. Looking into the courtyard you see Dwarves and elves fighting each other in pockets, a few deadlocked in mortal combat. A few dead bodies are strewn across the ground, and hot blood forms pools in the snow. A shame, nothing mars beauty more than blood and bodies. Ah well, as far as you're concerned the area is bloody enough, so a few more bodies wouldn't change too much. You lower your visor and rush toward the nearest elf.

It never ceases to amaze you how tall elves are, and even among the elves this one is considered tall. You only make it a bit past his waist, but that's no problem. It makes it easier to hit his knees, a favorite tactics of yours. As you dash closer to him you raise your shield to block his downward swing. It's like a strike of lightning, but stout dwarf arms are made for such things. Shaking off the power of the blow you take a ferocious swing at his knees.

Thank the gods you sharpened the axe, for even so it still takes a moment for the blade to carry through the armor and into the leg. You always enjoyed that feeling. It's as though you were carrying a knife through thick butter. You can tell instantly that the elf wasn't as thrilled with the sensation. Looking up you can see his face twisted into a disgusting form, and more than that you can hear the shrill yell. It stings in your ears. That's the part you hate, the yelling. You resolve to stop it as soon as possible, so as soon as the elf falls into the snow you are upon him, axe in the air. It's a quick motion, just as you were taught as a lad. Raise the axe up right above your head, not to the left or right, the cut isn't as clean that way, then bring it down. It's best to aim for the forehead, anywhere else and there is a chance that their helmet will glance the blow. If you come down right on the forehead the helmet will dent in, and the head below will split like a melon. It's a time tested maneuver, and you quickly learn that this elf breaks just as easily as any other.

Taking a deep breath and whipping the sweat from your brow you look around the courtyard. Things don't seem to be going as well for the others. Looking to your left you see Thormod face up in the snow with 3 arrows in his chest. A damn shame, he was as good a card player as they came, and it wasn't uncommon for him to buy the company drinks with his winnings. Staring at the cold corpse a bitter smile crosses your lips: These elves have damn impressive grouping. Each one of the three arrows comes within a 6 inch radius, cruelly placed upon the victim's heart. Any inhibitions you had for slaughtering these devils fades like the final breaths of your brethren.

The battle is winding down to a close, and the arrival of your reinforcements means that the remaining elves are trapped in the fort. Slowly they fight their way to one of the few buildings left standing: the fort's temple. Huddling inside they prepare to make a last stand. There aren't many left as they shut the doors behind them, so you reckon that the problem could wait until morning. You are now beginning to feel how utterly exhausted you are... the march didn't help, and the battle did in whatever energy you had left. The fire has more or less burnt itself out as well. The timbers of the fort are think enough to have more or less survived the fire, although it now looks as though all the walls have been painted black. Your company is going to have to fix that, but that too can wait. You order the mountaineers to watch the elves in the temple while the rest of you find a place to sleep. Many of the fort's buildings are burnt to ruin, so any dry nook would have to suffice. Thank the gods that dwarves don't take up much space.

It takes you over an hour to fall asleep, exhausted as you are. It's one of the worst nights in living memory. The smell of the dead is terrible. There was no time to move them, as it was well into the night when the battle ended, so the dead and dying mingle together in the snow. The cold helps slightly contain the stench, but its help is limited. Worse still is the number of corpses that were caught in the inferno, whether they were corpses or not going into it. The smell of burning hair and flesh batters at your senses like an angry invader. Covering your nose is more of a gesture of futility than a solution.

If the smells take a heavy toll then the sounds add a whole new level to the horror. Never before had you heard so many pitiful cries and whines as you have tonight. Strange calls in strange elven tongues probe your ears, penetrating even your hands that you tightly clasp over your ears. If you weren't so tired you swear that you'd get up and put an axe in every source of sound, friend or foe. All you can do now is crawl to the deepest recess of the ruin and cover yourself mind, body, and soul. As you settle down an anger flares up in you: The damned elves get a dry temple to sleep in tonight, while the victor is out here sleeping like a beggar. Damn them, damn all this noise, and damn this cold! A dwarf may be used to the cold, but it certainly doesn't mean that he prefers it over warmth. The only thing you managed to salvage that's close to a blanket was an Elven banner that was torn off its post by one of your men and left in the snow. The boot marks and blood stains are still clearly visible, but at a time like this it's as good a cloak as any...


	2. The Aftermath

Bright light stings your eyes as the new days dawns. As you come to your sense you realize that there is quite a bit of commotion going on in the courtyard, what a miserable way to start the day. You stumble out of your little nook and brush the light blanket of snow off of yourself. Your eyes strain to adjust to the light, and as things come into focus the scene becomes clear. There was a fight, and before you lay a few elves and a dead dwarf.

"Captain, good to see you've joined us". You turn to face Ruark as he saunters toward you. His scale armor is battered, slashed, dented, and wore from years of use, just as you remember. You only difference now, as you notice as he comes closer, is there is now quite a fanciful array of light streaks on his chest pierce. It's looks to you as though somebody laid a good many blonde hairs upon his armor, but you are well aware that elf blades are thin and sharp. You swear that so many cuts would have turned even scale mail to ribbons, but the grin on Ruark's face tells no such story.

You give him a warm smile, but as your eyes again catch the bloodshed in front on the temple your expression grows grave. You whirl about and inquire aloud as to what happened. Your expression of dismay is not lost on the men, and they too lose any sense of morning cheer.

"A few tried to slip out while we slept. They assaulted the sentry and overcame him before the rest of us could come and contain them." says Ruark at the edge of his breath. His gaze lifts from the ground up to the temple, where the rest of the Elves were being held.

You really have to wonder why only some of them tried to escape instead of the whole lot of them. Perhaps only the bravest among them dared venture out? If so then that's quite fortunate, as the elves that lay before you are very much dead. You idly cast your gaze from one side of the courtyard to the other as your thoughts course like blood through your weary mind. You take a step or two forward toward the imposing structure that has become home to your enemies. The form of a mountain is chiseled into the stone above the barred entryway. It is the sign of Borsod, the Dwarven god of mountains. Around the carved mountain is a string of words engraved in your native Dwarven tongue, they read "He who carries faith in his heart shall never be lost. Look to the mountains and see the way". You wonder to yourself where Borsod's guidance was during the blizzard, but with a shake of your head dismiss the thought.

You pull your axe from its belt loop and rest it upon the ground, leaning on it like a walking staff. It's rare to have a moment to stop and enjoy Dwarven architecture, and sometimes you forget why it is said that your people are the greatest craftsmen in all of Qadal. You stare at the building, taking in all of its sights. Borsod's seal takes up a great deal of the edifice's forward face. It is a stout building, with smooth walls and sharp corners. It looks something like a pentagon, or perhaps a hexagon, something like that... math was never a favored subject of yours. The coarse stone, which you could tell was once polished to shine, is now a dull grey. Soot and blood now mingle with the marks of swords and arrow strikes, giving the building a sad, weary look. You look down at your battered, dirty armor, with all of its dents and marks. The officer's sash is tangled up and slightly burned; a scale or two has come off of your arm vambraces; the leather of your boots is coming apart, and worst of all: There is a slight gash broken onto the stone brooch you use to pin up your cloak. It is the brooch of House Stoneshield, and on it is your family sigil. Looking up again at the temple, you smirk to think that you and the building look very much the same. Bah, you have the bloody Elves to thank for all of that.

Thinking about the Elves, you look toward the group of dead laying in the snow. It's only once the action has long past that you notice the ornate look of the Elven armor. Soft greens and shining silvers come together in beautiful shapes, gleaming in the light, only dulled by putrid streaks of crimson and patches of soot. You stare at the bodies, their faces fixed on a position somewhere in the far sky...

Captain!

You know, it seems so strange... the looks on their faces...

Captain!

It's like they're only sleeping... so peaceful...

"Captain Borim!" comes a voice roaring into your ears. You quickly come to your senses and turn to face the voice, only to notice that it's within arms reach. Ruark's rough features are clear as day only a mere foot or two away. "I apologize fer havin' to shout right at you, captain, but you seemed well off and gone. This is not the time of times to go losin' yerself."

You give a weak smile and explain that you were just thinking.

"Well I hope you thought of somethin' good, since we still got a bit of unfinished business". He gestures to the temple that looms cold and dark over you. The wind howls by and is broken by the building's sheer face walls. Your gaze again goes to the dashes and breaks in the wall, with the ash still crushed onto the surface. If you didn't know better you might have mistaken it for a tomb. Why then are the Elves even holding themselves up in there of all places? It's certainly not an inviting building for a final stand. You're a Dwarf and the thing still looks ominous...

There's nothing left to do but try to deal with the problem directly. Bringing your axe up into combat position you pull your shield off of your back. It, like the damaged brooch on your shoulder, has the sigil of House Stoneshield emblazoned onto its smooth metal surface. A few gashes and dents mar its beauty, but to you they add a special value, especially that newest gash, graciously bestowed by the Elf that you slew just yesterday. You are prepared for whatever battle comes next, and a quick glimpse over your shoulder shows that the men are ready as well.

Marching your way up to the heavy oaken doors you give them a solid three hits. The doors buckle in place and a dusting of snow comes down onto you, but you receive no response. Elves are strange folks, you think. If they're going to make themselves at home in an enemy camp they should at least have the decency to answer the bloody door when the owner comes knocking. Another three raps upon the door is met with no response. Damn Elves, now they're just getting annoying.

"I could check the windows" comes a voice from the ranks "to see if they're still inside, sir."

Dag steps forward, one of the troops from Ruark's crossbow company. He seems quite nimble. Well, at least in Dwarf terms, which admittedly equates to clumsy to almost anyone else. He is also new, clearly eager to get a bit of extra action, and perhaps some recognition to boot. You look him up and down: The scales of his armor still shine a bright silver, his boots look newly pressed, and the hilt of his sword gleams the black of new leather. It's hard to not smirk, looking upon his face, all smooth save some hairs about his lower jaw. You think to yourself "This one wants to be a solder? Very well, let us see how well he fares".

With an affirmative nod you give Dag the signal to check the windows. It takes him a few attempts, but he finally manages to lift himself up to the windows so that he may peer inside. A few moments pass, and his figure disappears into the building, sending a plum of dust and snow up behind him. That wasn't part of the plan. Your face grows grave at the thought of what may happen if those murderous elves are still inside. Sure the boy could climb a ledge, but that didn't mean he could fight a band of professional soldiers.

Your breathe swirls around you like the smoke of an open fire as you stand tense before the great doors. The unit is left there ambling in the cold breeze for a few minutes, but before too long you hear the sounds of movement behind the door. A heavy thud sounds on the other side of the door, and a few moment later one of the great oaken doors creaks open. The figure of Dag emerges into the light, blocking his eyes as the sun and snow take the opportunity to flood the opening.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone inside, sir. I checked the whole area right and proper."

Your face darkens as you look the young soldier up and down, then peer into the room behind him. How can the Elves not be inside? You saw them retreat into the temple when the rest of your company entered the fort, and there obviously isn't an abundance of ways to get either inside or out. With a hint of disbelief in your voice, you order Dag to grab a few men and check the building again. Elves are known to do many strange things, but disappearing into thin air would be new even to you.

You scratch your beard and think hard as to what had happened. While you ponder, Ruark comes over and puts a hand on your shoulder. "Sir. I jus' got word from Dwalad, one of the Lord Torhad's forward scouts. You know, sir, I served with that old bastard when th' Northmen attacked Mol Thoram. They call 'im the Northern Shadow, he...". Your mind begins to drift off while Ruark regales you with all one of his many war stories. It's about time you heard from the main force, it's been days. The blizzard probably had something to do with that. Damn shame, the army ought to moving at a faster pace...

A few minutes later, Ruark's booming laugh pulls you back to reality. You reckon that means the story is nearly over, and with a smile and nod you feint attention.

"… and that how I got th' scar on me left arm. Never insult a Northman's mother, I'll give you that bit o' wisdom right there. Might save your life one day..." he chuckles to himself as his gaze is lost in the snow. There is a pause for a few moments, which you use to carry him back on topic. "I'm sorry, sir. I sometimes get carried away, don't be afraid t' stop me rabblin'. Anyhow, Dwalad told me that Lord Torhad's force is no more than two or three days away".

That news hits you as a mixed blessing. The benefit being that Lord Torhad is actually moving his force, which is a damned miracle if there ever was one. The problem is that two to three days is a long time, especially when the enemy is so close at hand.

Ruark continues "He also told me that Lord Torhad was impressed with your work in capturing the fort. He reckons you'll be getting a ribbon or somethin' out o' that".

That's another benefit you forgot about: Political types like Lord Torhad may not be good for much on the field, but they do have a great tendency to put in a good word when properly inclined. The thought of glory and decorations is bright in your mind, but now isn't the time to linger on that. Those are thoughts for home, where there's a much lower chance of untimely death.

Coming back to yourself, you look about the fort interior. The dead still litter the ground, pools of their blood punching deep holes in the soft fabric of snow. The smell carries with them as well, though you have become somewhat jaded to the stench. It's only when you think about it that the smell of death again attacks your sense. Needless to say you force it as far back in your mind as possible.

Thinking about senses, you realize that you can no longer hear the sounds of the dying. That's a morbid relief, but it doesn't escape your mind that not all of the cries were those of your enemies. The company is certainly smaller now than when it arrived. It seems like the troops tasked with moving the bodies with have their job well cut out for them. Looking to the walls you see that they are still emblazoned with the jagged designs the fire carved onto them. Somebody's going to have to fix that as well. You groan... it's already midday and there is still much to be done.

Bah, those chores are for the troops to deal with, not you. There is a more pressing matter for you to consider: The Elves, and how those devils managed to slip out of the temple. You head toward the oaken doors, battered and slashed from battle. You can even make out where the fire began to creep up the door before being snuffed out by the falling snow. It's deceptively heavy, but you manage to press it open without too much effort. It gives out a deep creak as you push it inside. There you stand in the doorway, with the howling cold and daylight pouring inside. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the light, for it is rather dark inside.

The interior is about as bleak as the exterior would betray. The military doesn't typically put aside much in the way of resource to make things look nice. The pews, for what few there are in the room, are carved stone, with only a bit of cloth lain across the seat to make it comfortable. The windows that line the walls are wide opening, taller than what the average Dwarf could reach as well. A few of them has ornate glass panels giving praise to Borsod, but most of them have lost their beauty and look like ghastly, demonic mouths. Along the walls are a few banners, with both the sigil of Borsod, and that of Mol Boldhir. Many of them have been torn down, and from what you can see the ones that weren't torn down were ripped and cut up beyond recovery. In the center of the room stands a statue figure, most likely meant to be Borsod. It takes no more than a moment to see that the Elves wrought their fury on the statue before they left. There are deep cracked in the stone, and parts of the statue are missing entirely. Both arms are off, and you can guess that the Elves used them to do the rest of the damage. The air rests heavily in this place, even with the cold draft whimpering into the room through the smashed windows.

You look to the far corner of the temple and see one of the troops sitting on the remains of a broken pew. Approaching him, you inquire as to what has so far been found.

"You know how temples have catacombs, sir? It seems that some of the fort's previous owners thought it'd be a fine idea to turn the catacombs here into an escape route". He gestures his hand toward an open trapdoor only a few feet away, tucked into a corner. Leaning a bit closer you can hear the distinct sound of movement below.

"If you would like to have a look for yourself, Dag is still down there with Tobar and a few others."

You give him a nod and move to the trapdoor. Peering down you catch a glimpse of the catacomb's decrepit state. Hardened dirt is used just as often as stone to keep the building supported, and the dim light is a strain on your eyes after only a few moments. Ah well, that's the sort of place Dwarves were born to live, and inspecting the situation is required.

You take hold of the ladder and begin to climb down, the daylight giving way to the dull glow of the torches below...


End file.
